Held & Pushed (2 book bundle) (35 page)

When enough time passed that I was positive he
wouldn’t be back until after the signing, I pulled into Ron’s driveway, where I
quickly drove around the house and parked on the back side, out of sight from
the highway.

I got out of the car but didn’t close the door.
Not yet. I stood—my right foot still flat on the floor board, left foot on the
grass—and looked slowly around the yard. Unsure of exactly what I was looking
for, a guard dog perhaps, maybe a trap or two, I visually inspected every inch
of the yard but found nothing menacing. Rose bushes, trees, a wooden bench next
to a water fountain, a concrete bird bath, a stone pathway that led to the back
deck, and a well-manicured lawn all gave the impression of serenity. There was
nothing at all to suggest that this was in fact the lair of a maniac.

Feeling secure, I grabbed the duffle bag from the
back seat and slung it over my shoulder. It was heavy, the strap digging into
my flesh as I walked across the yard, keeping close to the house.

I ascended the two steps and stood on the deck,
looking up to check for surveillance cameras that may be mounted on the house.
It was too late, really. If there were any, my image had already been captured.
But I looked anyway and found none, which didn’t surprise me. Ron was cocky and
arrogant, not to mention psychotic. Even if there ever was an intruder, he
wouldn’t leave alive. Ron would see to that.

There was a back door, which probably opened into
a laundry room. Figuring it to be locked, I paid it no mind and headed straight
for the patio doors. It seemed no one ever locked their sliding glass doors,
and Ron was no exception. One tug of the handle and the door slid on the track,
opening up his house to me.

My heart hammered in my chest. I’d once spent
months trying to break out of Ron’s house. Now here I was breaking into it.
Sure it was a different house, but it was the same man. And if I wasn’t
careful, I wouldn’t leave this time. Not in one piece anyway.

As my hand trembled on the door handle, I asked
myself if this was really what I wanted, what I needed, because once I stepped
inside the house, nothing would ever be the same. For better or for worse, things
were going to change the second I crossed the threshold. Only one of us would
be coming out of this house alive, and it was only a fifty-fifty chance that it
would be me.

I had to wonder if I even had the strength to face
Ron once again. The last two years had worn me down, both physically and
mentally. Facing him now, only one of two things would happen. Either I’d find
strength I never knew I had and would be able to pull off my plan without
incident, or I would revert back to being the victim and cower in a corner at
the mere sight of him.

One thing was for sure. If I didn’t do something
now, nothing would ever be done. Ron would continue to torture and kill woman
as long as he was able to. And he’d do it all without the fear of being caught.
No. This had to stop.
He
had to stop.
And there was only one person who could stop him. Me. Only then would the
terror end. Only then could I regain my life.
My husband.
My son.

I took a deep breath and stepped across the
threshold.

For some reason, I’d expected to see chaos.
Slum.
Overturned furniture.
Dirty clothes.
Rats.
Cockroaches.
Feces smeared on the walls. Anything that showed this was the home of a
sadistic murderer.

What I saw instead was absolute perfection.
Beautiful and expensive furniture, neatly arranged. Hardwood floors, void of
any scuffs or scratches. Elegant drapes on the windows.
The
scent of fresh linen in the air.

From where I stood in the dining room, I could
only see the living room and the kitchen, but the sight of just these three
rooms had me awestruck, and at the same time furious.

Here I was, reduced to living in a fleabag motel
while this asshole was living in the lap of luxury. It wasn’t fair.

Where was my huge china hutch?

Where was my bouquet of fresh flowers on the
table?

Where was my expensive area rug?

Where were my oversized stainless steel
appliances?

Where was my big, dust-free house with the fancy
crown molding?

Where was my justice?

My fists automatically clenched at my sides. I was
on the verge of seething, but I forced myself to calm down. Wallowing in my
rage would accomplish nothing. There was work to be done, and that work
required a clear head. Besides, he was about to get what he had coming to him.
There would be justice. I just had to remain calm and focused.

In the living room, I gently set my duffle bag on
the coffee table. I didn’t want to leave any clues that I had been in the
house. While it was true that Ron was a sadistic maniac, he was also a keen
observer. He might notice if I plopped the bag onto the floor or the couch.
Hell, he might even notice my shoeprints on the carpet. I made a mental note to
cover my tracks when I was finished exploring.

The rooms of the house were large and spacious.
Ten foot ceilings throughout added to the airy feeling, as did the extra large
windows. The color scheme throughout was neutral, everything from the walls to
the carpet were varying shades of beige. Expensive artwork—actual paintings on
real canvas, painted by famous artists—hung on the walls.

Though there were similarities between
this house and the one in which I’d been held, there were differences too.
The main similarity was the simple style. There was no clutter, no unnecessary
furnishings. The main difference was there was now a television hanging on the
wall above the fireplace. I found that odd since Ron had been dead set against
having a television before, but I supposed when you did the things he did, you
needed to watch the news. Turns out Ron liked to know his enemy too.

I explored the first floor of the house thoroughly
before heading upstairs. It still amazed me that even though the man was a
serial killer and now a semi-famous writer, he managed to find time to keep his
house immaculate. Nothing was out of place and not a speck of dust could be
found anywhere.

Underneath the staircase that led to the second
floor was a door. I didn’t need to open it to know where it went. Of course it
was possible that I was wrong. It could be nothing more than a closet. Perhaps
there was no basement to this house.

Headlines from the news sprang to mind—
another body found
,
another missing woman
,
she
hasn’t been seen since Saturday
—and the doubts were erased from my mind. I
knew that there was no closet behind this door. No, beyond this door lay the
source of many nightmares, the stuff Hollywood writers concocted to make money
from horror-loving moviegoers.

I backed away, not yet ready to face the madness
within.

With my duffle bag in tow, I headed upstairs,
squatting and using my hand to fluff the fibers of the rugs and carpets I walked
on along the way, ensuring that I left no evidence of my presence. I didn’t
want Ron to know I was here.

11

T
he
book signing was a smash. People loved Ron. He was handsome and charming, smart
and funny. What wasn’t there to like?

He left the bookstore with a spring in his step
and a smile on his face. He loved that feeling, the feeling of success. So much
had gone right in his life over the past year or so, that it was hard to
remember the little that had gone wrong, so he didn’t bother with remembering
it. He just lived in the moment, enjoying the high that came with achieving the
success he’d longed for all those years.

The signing had gone on longer than he’d planned.
He wasn’t one to turn away a fan though, so as long as they kept lining up, he
kept signing their books.
And smiling.
And talking.
And flirting with the women.
The women ate it up, the attention of this mysterious writer. Elderly ladies
giggled like schoolgirls and schoolgirls babbled like idiots. This would make
it even more unbelievable if he ever did fall under the suspicion of the police
for the crimes he’d committed. His fans would have his back, no doubt. They
could attest that there was no way such a charming and charismatic, polite and
friendly man could do the horrible things of which they were accusing him.

The owner of the bookstore had invited Ron out to
an early dinner and a drink in celebration of the success of the signing. He
declined. Not only was there a steak in his refrigerator calling his name, but
he didn’t care to be around other people. The only time he tolerated it was
when he had a reason. There was no reason to go out with this middle-aged bald
man whose belly hung over his belt. Ron wasn’t yet ready to look for a new
woman to fill his basement, and there was nothing else to gain from sharing the
man’s company. So politely, he explained that he had to put the finishing
touches on his latest novel. He then left the man with a smile and a wave.

Driving home, Ron left the radio off so he could
better relive the previous night’s events. Not the clean-up. He always hated
that part and did his best not to think about it after it was done. Instead, he
enjoyed thinking back on the moments before the clean-up, which were always the
best moments to remember. In this case, it was Bethany’s final moments.

He watched the world around him, extra careful in
traffic so as not to be involved in an accident of any kind that would put his
name on the lips of police officers, but while his eyes saw green lights and
brake lights and pedestrians, his mind saw Bethany’s lips rip apart as she
tried to open her mouth to scream, fighting against the super glue that had
sealed them closed.

His ears heard the blaring horns of frustrated and
angry drivers around him, but his mind heard Bethany’s tortured screams as he’d
cut open her belly and plunged his hand into her abdominal cavity. He could
still hear her ragged gasps for breath as she wailed until her throat stopped
producing sound.

His nose smelled the light scent of chemicals as
the car’s air conditioner blew gently on his face, but his mind smelled
Bethany’s blood, thick with iron and reminiscent of metal. He smelled the
bitter aroma of her intestines as he pulled them slowly out of her body and
slid them through his hands. They were slick with blood and warm, so warm.

A smile crept across his face as he remembered how
good it felt to hold her organs in his hands, organs that were still alive and
working. He savored the memory of the look on her face as he’d held up his
hands and showed her what her uterus looked like, her intestines, and then her
spleen. It was a shame she hadn’t lived long enough to see them all.

Maybe the next woman would.

Ron thought of the blond woman who’d given him her
phone number at the previous signing. Perhaps he should call her and see if she
would like to come over for a drink. She was certainly a bold woman,
approaching him without hesitation and giving out her number. Maybe she was
strong enough to remain alive long enough to see all of her innards.

He pulled into his driveway, parked in the garage,
and went in the house. No matter where in the world he went, it was always good
to be home.

Immediately, Ron went to work preparing to cook
the steak. He gathered everything he needed, placed it all on the wooden tray
he used for just such a purpose, and then headed toward the patio doors,
intending to grill the steak and potato on the deck. It was something he did
often, something he enjoyed doing.

With one hand beneath the tray and the other on
the handle of the sliding glass door, he looked outside, thought for a second,
and then changed his mind. He wasn’t going to grill the steak today. Today, he
was too tired to go to all the trouble of grilling it. Instead, he went back
into the kitchen and cooked the steak on the stove and baked the potato in the
oven. It was just as delicious and there was less mess to clean.

After the work he’d done the night before, he
didn’t feel like cleaning another mess. Bethany had been a chore. It had taken
him the greater part of the night to dispose of her and erase all traces of her
from his home. He’d attained very little sleep in the wee hours of the morning
before having to get ready for and attend the tour’s final book signing. He was
too exhausted to even call the blond woman from the bookstore.

While driving to the bookstore that morning, he’d
fooled himself into thinking he could come home and work on his latest book. He
now realized that wasn’t going to happen. Not until he’d at the very least taken
a nap.

These women were sapping him of his strength. But
boy was it worth it.

It wasn’t a lie that he used the women as research
for his books. That was definitely true. But it would be a lie to say that he
didn’t enjoy what he did. He more than enjoyed it. He loved it. Even if he
never wrote another book in his life, he would continue to do what he did with
the women. It was simply too much fun to stop. More than fun even. It was
thrilling.
Exciting.
Exhilarating.

For as long as he could remember, Ron had wanted
to write. He wasn’t sure what field of writing he wanted to go into, whether he
should become a reporter or a novelist or an essayist, but he knew that words
were his ticket out of the life he’d grown up living. He didn’t want to be like
his father, abusive and shifty. He didn’t want to be like his mother either, a
clueless victim. He wanted to rise above all that his parents had, which
consisted of poverty, a long line of meaningless, dead-end jobs that came and
went, the fear of never knowing where the next meal would come from, and a
series of run-down roach-infested houses. He wanted to make a better life for
himself, and the tool to achieving that goal was education, which was something
neither of his parents had.

Most of Ron’s learning was self-taught. As often
as he could, he’d sneak out of the house and go the library, where he’d spend
hours reading books and learning all he could on a vast variety of subjects.
He’d learned early on in his life that if people thought you were dumb, they would
take advantage of you and never think twice about it. If they thought you were
intelligent, they treated you differently, better. Doors opened up to you when
you were smart, doors that you would’ve never even seen otherwise.

He’d started his writing career early, as a young
man eager to prove himself and make his name known in the literary world.

At the age of twenty, he applied for and was
surprised to get a job for his local newspaper. It wasn’t much, just a weekly
column about local happenings, but it was a start.

After two years of that, he realized that if he
was ever going to make anything more of his career, he had to take matters into
his own hands. He began writing his first novel.

The idea came to him after writing in his weekly
column about a serial killer who’s death sentence was due to be carried out.
The killer wasn’t a local man, but one of his victims had been a local woman.

Thinking that the story would make a great first
novel, Ron arranged an interview with him. The words that were exchanged
between them that day had fueled the fire for writing that burned within Ron,
and also sparked a curiosity about something else.

Murder.

The beginning of his career as a novelist was a
failure, his first book selling miserably. But his career as a murderer had
been successful from the start. As with his writing, his skill had improved
greatly over the years. Though he couldn’t exactly brag about the things he’d
done to anyone in real life, he was proud of his body of work and reveled in
the fact that he could brag about it all he wanted on paper. If it was written
on paper, it was fiction. People loved to read a gory story and soak up all the
details as long as they thought it was
fake
, but if
they ever learned it was real, well then suddenly it was disgusting and he was
a hideous monster who should be locked away from society.

People were funny that way.

Ron sat at the dining room table, cutting his
steak one piece at a time, chewing slowly and thinking about the work he had to
do on his latest novel. From there, he thought about ideas for his next novel.
And the one after that.

He smiled because there was no end in sight. As
long as there were women in the world, there was no end to the torment and pain
he could cause them, which meant there was always going to be a book to write.

He considered it job security.

Once he’d consumed the steak and potato and drank
a single glass of wine, he washed his plate, yawned, and headed upstairs to
bed, exhausted.

Normally, he would’ve brushed his teeth before
turning back the blankets on the bed and sliding between the sheets. Not this
time. It would have to wait because he was simply too tired.

After removing his shoes and placing them neatly
on the floor, he took off his pants, folded them—careful to keep the crease—and
placed them on the chair beside the bed. He did the same thing with his shirt.
He then folded his socks and laid them on top of his shoes. Wearing only his
underwear, he got into bed, where he was asleep almost as soon as his head
touched the pillow.

12